John Sara

Jerry the Milkman

I never invited the milkman to my house, but he showed up anyway one cold November morning, when the windows were left crystal white from frost. His truck, a sleek baby blue in color and so polished it shined, was parked in front of my driveway, just minutes before I usually left for work. On the side was Mrs. Moo-Moo, a large smiling cow in an apron, looking like something out of a cartoon that you’d probably never show your kids. Sitting in the driver’s seat was a mischievous-looking man of about sixty-years old, dressed completely in white, from his long, baggy dress pants to his button-up shirt where a tiny black bowtie rested beneath his chin, wrapping around his neck like a tightened noose. The man was balding. A subtle comb-over of dark hair was the only thing that could indicate he ever had hair. Stepping outside, I read the name scribbled crudely on a crooked nametag: JERRY.

A line of bouncing children stretched from the truck to the end of the block, all of them eager to get a cold, refreshing glass of milk. Be it regular, chocolate, strawberry, it didn’t matter, the kids wanted their milk, and they wanted it now.

“You’ve made Mrs. Moo-Moo very proud today” said Jerry the milkman, as he handed one of the children a small glass bottle filled to the brim with pink-colored milk.

In addition to the milk, Jerry was also handing out what appeared to be plastic cow masks for each child to wear. As I tried to wade through the growing crowd to get to my car, I found myself surrounded by the eerie face of a grinning cow, just like the one on the side of Jerry’s truck, all with beady black eyes staring back at me. With every facial feature obscured under the masks, it was hard to tell they were even human. As I pushed through them, they pushed right back with surprising strength, loudly mooing at me as if to give a grave warning for me to leave and never come back. All I wanted to do was go to work in peace.

“Hey, you there, my boy!” Jerry the Milkman called in a jovial voice.

It took me a minute to realize he was talking to me. When I turned to look at him, Jerry flashed me a white toothy smile that made his thin black mustache curl under his nose.

“Would you like some milk, my boy?” Jerry asked. “I’ve got plenty here.”

“Who, me? Nah, that’s kid stuff.” I told him. I never was a fan of milk.

My reply brought a scowl to Jerry’s face. He looked angry. No, he looked straight-up enraged. But then that same wide smile crept back onto his face.

“Oh, you’re never too old for the magic of milk.” Jerry assured me.

“Look, I told you, I don’t want any milk, okay? I want you to get off my property. I need to get to work and frankly, you’re creeping me out.”

Once more, Jerry the Milkman frowned, but it looked almost solemn this time.

“Well, that won’t do. That won’t do at all. You’ve just made Mrs. Moo-Moo very upset.” Jerry said. “And you know what happens when Mrs. Moo-Moo gets upset?”

“I don’t care.” I replied. “Take your milk and leave.”

Jerry grinned again. “Did you just say milk?”

In response, the crowd of children in cow masks began to cheer loudly, so loud it made my eardrums burst with a sudden violence. They all began to chant milk, milk, milk, over and over again, repeating the words into the air like some kind of sacrificial cult. 

Before I knew it, I was savagely attacked by the army of masked toddlers. I didn’t stand a chance as they seized me from every side, no matter how much I struggled. I screamed for help as they dragged me to the back of the truck, but I knew it was too late. The kids continued to cheer as they shoved me inside into pitch black darkness.

It didn’t take long to start hearing the mooing, a low guttural sound that seemed to pour smoke from the open jaws of a hideous creature. I realized now I was in the presence of Mrs. Moo-Moo, a massive cow with twisted horns upon its head and four sets of red glowing eyes, the only light source available to me. The creature let out a demonic moo, jaws split open wide to expose rows of razor sharp teeth and a slimy green tongue. Her bottom half, composed only of dark oily tendrils, seemed to hungrily reach out for me.

So, this is what happens when Mrs. Moo-Moo is upset, I thought. I guess this is my punishment for being lactose intolerant.